


Edinburgh

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Anonymous Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-31
Updated: 2011-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-24 21:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: "It isn't love… It's only Edinburgh." (A little anonymous shagging, anyone?)Book universe.





	Edinburgh

"It isn't love… It's only Edinburgh."  
– Perpetua, Chapter 9 ("August – Disintegration"), _Bridget Jones' Diary_

* * *

_Mid-August_  
_Edinburgh, Scotland, UK_

He really needed to learn to stand up for himself sometimes. If he could do so, he wouldn't be dressed in a ridiculous costume and mask watching a roomful of other people dressed in equally ridiculous costumes and masks behaving in a similar fashion. No, he told himself; not a similar fashion, because they were enjoying themselves, whereas he was not.

He was the lone representative of his group present, not so much persuaded as pressured into attending this masked ball due to his being newly returned to chambers from the US, which was the source of his prior thoughts regarding developing a backbone. His colleagues (with titters of amusement, he was sure) had conspired to put together a costume for him, likely in anticipation of any objection to not having a costume. The ensemble was supposedly the Phantom of the Opera except with a horrible black mask, which even he was aware should have been white.

So he stood there, dressed in a black suit, waistcoat and gloves, with a monstrous cloak and this ridiculous, incorrect mask. If not for the copious flow of alcoholic drinks being pressed into his hand he did not know what he'd have done; probably he would have vacated the premises, damn the charity aspect of the evening, though it did occur to him that by this point he might not have even been able to navigate to his room without assistance. He needed only to bear the party until it was polite to leave. He had not spoken to anyone all evening and he hardly wished to start now.

Except.

His eye was caught by a flash of sparkling red, a long red satin cloak paired with a short red sequined skirt. His eyes were drawn down towards the evidently bare legs that carried the lady wearing that dress, then up again to a smiling mouth beneath a matching sequined mask that obscured her face from the cheeks up. Her blonde hair was loose and sailing about her shoulders as she twirled in time with the music, save for a big red satin bow pinning the crown of her hair back. She was lacking a basket to take to grandmother's house, but she was unmistakeably supposed to be Red Riding Hood.

His gaze continued to be drawn to her as she danced, laughing and clearly having a good time. She danced with a succession of young men, but things did not seem more than a light flirtation. 

Then she looked to him, a smile still playing on her lips, and after a few moments, she nodded decisively then strode towards him, her shoes shining with each step.

"So where's your sword?" she said with a grin.

"Pardon?" he asked, a little surprised.

"You're Zorro?"

"No," he said gruffly.

"Big Bad Wolf?" she retorted.

" _No_ ," he said again, though smiled in amusement. He then added reluctantly, "Phantom of the Opera."

She tilted her head, and he saw her eyes narrow through the eye holes. "The Phantom wears a _white_ mask."

"I realise that, yes," he said.

"You look bored," she said, her red lips pouting. "Why not come dance?"

He stared at her as if she were mad. "No."

"Come on," she said insistently.

"I don't dance."

She grabbed his hand, taking it in both of hers. "Come _on_ ," she said again. "Have a little fun."

Her hands were very soft and warm, and when she tugged he felt himself moving to follow her. She stopped and turned, then began to dance and bounce around in time to what was clearly a club classic.

"Come on, Zorro," she teased. "You can't tell me you're eighty-five under that mask."

He smiled, then to humour her tried bouncing on the balls of his feet a little in time with the music, which made her smile broadly and laugh, though he could hardly hear it over the music. She shouted something, and when it became obvious that he hadn't heard she repeated herself:

"Move your hips and shoulders!" To demonstrate she wiggled her hips in counterpoint to her shoulders, a movement that was playful and at the same time enticing.

At this beckoning he did as she asked. He knew he looked foolish but with the number of drinks in him he felt loose enough to give it a try. In response, in her delight she bounced on her toes and clapped her hands, then bounced again. He didn't know where she got her energy from, but when she jumped up the skirt of her dress rode up, and being a straight male in possession of relatively decent eyesight, he couldn't help but notice the lacy red pants beneath. Her bosoms also rose and fell with her movement, which also understandably attracted his attention.

She reached to take both of his hands in hers. "Move with me!" she said.

Just as she said it the music changed to something markedly different, much slower, very sexy. She did not release his hands. "Oh, come on, you can show me you really can't dance," she said, then brought his hands to rest on her waist. 

The sequins prickled his fingertips but they moved quickly up and around to the bare skin of her back when she laced her arms around his neck and pulled herself close to him. At this close distance, even in the dim light of the room he caught a glimpse of her necklace, a beautiful golden chain and sparkling red apple covered with what looked like rubies. She also smelled extraordinary, a perfume he could not identify, one he found immediately alluring. He asked her what it was.

"No idea. I borrowed it," she said, tilting her head away from him. "You don't know?"

It seemed to him she was inviting him to take another sniff. He leaned, taking care that their masks did not clash. He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. His fingers tightened on her back. 

"No idea, either," he said. "It's nice, though."

"Quite nice yourself," she said. He thought she might be English, though this festival drew in participants from all over the world, so it was hard to be certain. Her voice was lovely, sweet, gravelly and sultry all at the same moment. The feel of her hands brushing his suit shoulders brought him from his contemplation. "You can too dance, you big liar."

He laughed low in his throat. "The credit is all yours."

He heard a sound of amusement emanate from her own throat. "I never trust the word of a Big Bad Wolf."

"I'm not the Big Bad Wolf."

"Right. _Zorro_."

He laughed again. "If you say so," he murmured.

As they danced he revelled in her perfume and traced his fingers along the valley of her spine; she grasped his shoulders then brushed her fingers to play against his collar. As her fingertips swept lightly along the skin of his neck, his hands trailed down over those shining spots of light sewn to her dress, over and onto her bottom. He heard her make a sound of surprise and approval.

"Well," she said, brushing his neck with her fingertips once more in that delicate and startlingly titillating caress. "If you _are_ eighty-five, you've still got the moves of a much younger man." This time when she tilted her head to the side, he took advantage of the bare expanse of skin, carefully turned his head and placed his lips to her neck just below her ear.

What occurred next happened so quickly he could hardly believe it; she tightened her embrace, pressed against him fully, such that he could do little more than open his lips against her skin, his teeth gently grazing her skin, then touching his tongue to her. He felt her make a sound in her throat, heard the soft _Oh_ emerge.

_I don't do this sort of thing_ , he thought; _I don't, I don't._ Yet there he was with his mouth on her neck, eliciting a sexy sound from her before he reared back to kiss her. He was instinctively moved by the attraction he felt for this woman, unfettered by his usual restraints and control… and there she was, returning his kiss, returning that passion. His hands dropped down further to her thighs, and he found himself touching the lacy pants he had only just previously glimpsed. In that moment he was grateful for the low light in the room and her long cape obscuring from the eyes of others what he was doing.

She sighed, breaking away. "Room nearby?"

"What?" he asked, just as it filtered through as to exactly what she meant. "Yes, yes," he answered. "You sure?"

She hesitated, which panicked him for a moment that he might be off to his room alone and headed for a cold shower, but then she said, "Uh-huh."

He slipped his arm around her waist and together they made their way to the lift, kissing her again during the ride, his hand on her arse and kneading gently. He repeated over and over in his head how this was not like him, but in all honesty he was sick of being 'like him.' He wanted this bit of adventure with a vivacious woman, two ships in the night, enjoying one another before parting their separate ways. He could go home to the heat of London, back to his dull, lonely life, back to being pressured to meet the Jones girl, but he would at least have this.

When they got to his room, she stayed his hand on the light switch, as she did when he went to remove her mask. 

"No," she said, reaching for his belt buckle. "They stay on."

Desperately he whispered, shivering under her ministrations, "Your name at least?"

"No names," she said. With a smile in her voice, she added, "It isn't love. It's only Edinburgh."

She was right… and what she had said told him she wanted the same thing.

No more conversation, it was decided. From one another they worked off each of their outfits; the capes were gone; his trousers were down, jacket, tie, shirt and waistcoat were off; her dress was unzipped and in a pool at her feet, leaving her there in nothing but red lacy pants, a matching bra, both striking against her pale skin in the reflected moonlight.

And, of course, the mask.

Overcome with desire for a woman he had known for such an incredibly and ridiculously short amount of time, he took her in his arms and brought her up against him, fingers raking down and pushing her pants down and over her bottom, causing her to softly sigh and reach for her little handbag.

She'd come prepared, for which he was very grateful.

Her skin was soft under his fingers as he removed her bra next; every caress he made along her skin, as he traced circles around her nipples to bring them to hard points, brought forth yet another sound of pleasure. Soon he had her up against the edge of the bed; he lifted her up, she raised her legs to encircle him and then quickly, urgently, he drove forward into her, causing her to moan. He had never felt quite so frenzied before, so caught up in the moment, his hands on her hips as he pulled her into his every thrust. He felt her heels digging into the backs of his legs; she clearly still had her pumps on, the mental image of which drove him even wilder with lust.

Her fingers pressed hard into the small of his back as she groaned and cried out for him to go faster, harder, which he did his very best to accommodate; his climax was building very quickly though, and he knew he would not be able to contain himself for long.

When her hands moved to his own arse, when her nails dug into the skin there, the pain added to the pleasure was more than he could take, and with a deep growl he came. As he continued to move in her, he dropped forward to pin her to the bed and take her mouth again.

She whimpered with every drive forward, moaned, then broke from the kiss to toss her head back, which allowed him to assail her throat with his lips, teeth and tongue as he had on the dance floor. As he did she let out a muffled cry, tightened her legs around his waist and felt her reach her own climax as she arched into him.

He fell to her side, gasping for air, looking over to the beautiful curvy figure of the woman he had just, for lack of a better term, shagged; watched her chest rise and fall as she tried to recover her own breath. He heard her chuckling, not in a scornful way, but in such a way that told him she was expressing pleasure. She sighed, her smile evident in her voice as she did. "That was fun," she said impishly.

He hummed low in his throat in gratified assent, then felt her fingernails on his forearm before she propped herself up on her elbow, her hair wild around her mask.

"I've got more," she said, trailing her fingers over his abdomen and around his navel, stirring a want for her again. He did not need to ask what she meant.

He turned and grasped her hip, pulling her flush to him and kissing her again. _Might as well take full advantage of the situation_ , he thought.

………

Sunlight filtering into the room was not what drew him from sleep, but the fact that he could hear voices very loud in the hallway outside his hotel room door. He blinked blearily and sat up, realising only then that a headache was waiting to meet him like blunt force trauma to the skull, and with an audible cry of pain he reached up to cradle his head with his palm, surprising himself that the mask was still intact. Slowly he pushed himself to stand, discarding the mask. He had been alone in the bed; the only apparent evidence that he had not spent the night alone was the smattering of small red shining dots all over the duvet and on the floor by the bed. Tentatively he rose from the bed, pulling a robe on, furrowing his brow, wondering if his mystery lover had gone into the loo.

He realised that the voices outside seemed so loud because the door to the hall was standing ajar. For a horrible moment he thought he had left it open in his rush to get Red into bed (he had no other name by which to think of her), but upon a cursory examination of the hotel room he determined it was because she had gone and had failed to close it behind herself all the way. He went forward and shut it.

_Room looks like a red disco ball exploded in here_ , he thought at the sight of so many tiny bits of red reflection staring up him. He padded over them and for the trousers that had ended up on the floor in order to find his mobile, before recollecting that he was in a hotel room and could use the house phone to order coffee. At least mobile and wallet were still intact, he reasoned, though somehow he knew they would be.

As he hung up the receiver, the reality of what had occurred the night before sunk in. He had never thought he could be the type to engage in casual sex, in an anonymous one-night stand which, had it been anyone else, it would have been the subject of derision to his own mind, foolish and irresponsible (an opinion he was not proud of, but there it was). There was a part of him that felt guilty about what he'd done even as he thought of it as an extraordinary secret to have had. They had been safe; they were consenting adults; why should he feel guilty? _Unless she wasn't of age_ , he thought with a momentary panic, but no, there was something about her that spoke of maturity and experience. What if she were married? It was possible—

He sighed. He couldn't put himself into that dangerous place, wondering about all the little details he couldn't know; even as he considered this he felt something akin to sadness. He didn't know anything about her… and he never would.

Before the coffee and breakfast arrived (the thought of something greasy made him nauseous, so he opted for some breakfast cereal and toast) he took the complimentary Paracetamol, musing to himself as he swallowed them down how they probably knew the festival crowd all too well, then distracted himself from the cathedral bells sounding in his head by tidying up the sheets and duvet so that it didn't look quite so much like he had been up half the night shagging a beautiful girl.

He caught himself smirking at the thought, despite himself.

In short order he made two discoveries.

One was her lacy pants, clearly overlooked and rumpled up in the duvet as she hastily dressed in the dim of the morning. He was overtaken by the thought of her walking down and out of the hotel to the kerb for a taxi—or maybe even only to her own room?—with nothing on beneath the lower half of her dress. He shook his head, snapping himself out of it. He tucked the pants into the robe's pocket then went to splash his face with cold water before the arrival of his food.

That was when he made the second discovery. Upon flicking on the light in the bathroom, on the mirror there he found written in that carmine lipstick: 

_You made Edinburgh v. memorable. Take care, XOXO_

He smiled, momentarily tempted to take a photo of it with his mobile's camera as a pleasant souvenir of the night, but realised it would be juvenile to do so. _Besides_ , he told himself, _if anyone ever got hold of my mobile—_

He soaped up a hand towel then washed away the lipstick, a residual smile finding his face. "Well," he said to his reflection, who looked quite self-satisfied, "I have the pants, at least."

A knock at the door brought him back to the present. He splashed his face with water and raced to open it, thinking it must be his breakfast. 

It was not.

"Mark!" boomed the sandy-haired, bespectacled Giles. "Having a late morning, eh?"

He realised he did not even know what time it was. "Yeah, sorry," he said.

Before Mark had a chance to think Giles was in the room, surveying it and smirking when he saw the sequins strewn about. "What happened here last night?" Giles asked, then turned wide, wondering eyes to Mark. "Good God. Did you have a girl in?"

He felt his gaze drop to the carpet in a time-worn expression of sheepish assent. 

Giles came nearer, slapping him on the shoulder. "Well done, man! About time you sowed a few wild oats. Who was she? What does she look like? Will you see her again?"

Mark cringed at the 'wild oats' phrase and otherwise did not know how to respond; fortunately his breakfast arrived at that moment, or at least he hoped it was his breakfast and not another co-worker. "Pardon me," he said as he walked to the door.

To his relief it was his food, which was carried in. He swore that the scent of the freshly brewed coffee alone made his head feel immediately better. He hoped Giles would get the hint and leave when he sat down at the little table to commence eating, but Giles didn't budge. Mark stared up at him.

"You didn't answer my questions," explained Giles.

"I know," said Mark stoically, then sipped his coffee.

"Come on, man, let a married man live a little vicariously," he said, not only not leaving, but taking the second chair (and somewhat precariously at that given his heft). "Was she pretty?"

When he realised Giles wasn't going to leave without a detail or two, Mark sighed and relented. "From what I could tell, yes."

Giles furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, 'From what I could tell'?"

"It was a masked ball."

As the light dawned, Giles sat up and his mouth dropped open.

"Yes," said Mark, confirming whatever question was hovering on the tip of Giles' tongue. "We met, we danced, I brought her upstairs."

"Mark, you sly dog," said Giles with a wink. "Good for you."

Mark stabbed a forefinger in Giles' direction. "I don't want this getting around," he said, his tone dark, his gaze assuredly penetrating.

"I'll say nothing," said Giles. "Loose lips and all that."

Mark stared a moment more, then returned to his cereal. "Good."

Giles rose. "Well. Leave you to your brekkies," he said. "Bunch of us are going to see the play up the road at three. Want to join us?"

"Maybe," he said, still unaware of the actual time. "Don't count on it."

"Right," he said. "Cheerio."

Giles closed the door behind himself as he departed, and as Mark returned to eating his breakfast in earnest, he realised he would probably be spending the whole of the remainder of his stay in Edinburgh scrutinising every blonde woman he encountered; after all, it was the one sure thing he knew about her. He couldn't even say with certainty what the colour of her eyes were, or how tall she was without the high-heeled shoes. Her body would now have been concealed with clothes. Lipstick was changeable and he would bet that that particular lurid shade of red was not something most women wore during the day.

In the end, scrutinise was exactly what he did, even if his scrutiny bore no result.

………

_Several years later_  
_London, England, UK_

Something shining on the floor, stuck under the edging, caught his attention, sparking a memory. Drawing his brows together, he crouched to pick it up. Tiny, flat and round with a tapered edge and a pierced centre, it glinted like a ruby stuck to his fingertip. He looked up, and spotted another such disc just a short distance away, between where he was and the storage room. Then another. Then another.

Then several more scattered at the door of the storage room.

He realised it must have been something she brought when she moved in.

"Darling," he asked casually over supper, "do these ring a bell?"

He dropped several of them next to her plate. He watched her pick one up by touching her fingertip to it, as he had done earlier. "Where did you find these?"

"In the hall, near the room into which you put some things."

Suddenly her eyebrows shot up and she smiled, then laughed. "Oh my God," she said. She then flushed crimson. His interest was piqued.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, hiding her face. "Nothing at all."

He knew body language well enough to know that she was really mortified by what had come to mind. "Bridget," he said. "Whatever it is you can tell me."

"You promise not to get angry," she said rather than asked.

"I promise," he said.

"The thing sheds like crazy," she said abashedly. "It's practically bald by now."

"What is?"

"Haven't worn it for years, stuffed it in a bag in the bottom of a box."

" _Bridget_. What is 'it'?"

"It's this… dress."

"Dress?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, blushing anew.

"And why haven't I ever seen this dress?"

"Because, like I said, it's missing half its sequins."

"Sequins," he repeated. Of course, he knew this rationally; he had picked the things up himself from the floor. The words, however had caused that glimmer of a memory to begin to surface.

"Yes," she said. "You know, these little things you found."

"I _know_ what they are," he said. Sudden urgency filled him. "Let's see the dress."

"Right now?" she asked. "I'm not sure exactly which box it's in, and I'm not through with supper."

He rose from the table. "Right now." At her surprised look at his brusque tone, he added, "Please."

She pursed her lips, set her fork down then rose and preceded him to the storage room. She began to dig into the first box she chose, which told him she had known all along which box it had been in. She pulled out the bag then reached into it, revealing its contents.

His hand went to his mouth in his surprise. Though terribly misshapen due to its storage, it appeared to be the same dress from Edinburgh, and if not the very dress, it was one exactly like it; same colour, same cut, same sequins (where sequins in fact remained).

"It's awful now, I know, but… well, at the time it was gorgeous, and I was thinner."

"At the time?" he asked. "Do you mean uni?"

"Not that long ago," she said. "Summer… before I met you the first time, come to think—" She stopped abruptly, blushing again.

"And?" he prompted.

She looked more embarrassed than he had ever seen her. "I don't want to say," she said at last. "You and I hadn't met yet, so…"

His heart was racing; he had to know if it was even remotely possible. "You can tell me anything."

She pursed her lips, not in anger, but in obvious indecision; in the abstract, she didn't want to have secrets from him, but she also didn't want to disclose what was on her mind in this instant. "Mark, please," she said at last.

It became clear he would have to intrigue her into answering, though the implications of the answer he was expecting was starting to give him a headache. "Was it about someone you met," he began, "maybe someone you feel embarrassed telling me about?"

She blinked in confusion and surprise.

"As you said," he continued, "you and I hadn't met yet."

She sighed, looking away. "Fine," she said resignedly. "But remember, you promised not to get angry." She turned her eyes to him again. "Do you still promise that?"

"Of course," he said quickly.

She drew in a great breath, then exhaled. "I went with friends up north… to Edinburgh. I did a fancy dress party with masks and all… and I… met someone. We never saw each other again. I came home. That's all there is."

He closed his eyes so tightly he could see sparks behind his lids. She was describing his liaison with Red to a T. He held one hand up to her to say without words to give him a moment to think, pressed the thumb and forefinger of the other into the corners of his eyes. Not only was it possible, it seemed probable. Likely, even.

"Mark, I'm sorry," she went on. It occurred to him she was interpreting his reaction as anger or disgust. "I know it sounds like an irresponsible thing to do but—"

"Bridget," he said. He drew his hand away from his face, lowered the second one, then opened his eyes. She looked distraught, on the verge of tears. "You were Red Riding Hood."

Her expression changed in a flash to one of confusion. "As a matter of fact, I was," she said, blinking rapidly, interpreting his statement as a query. "I had a cape and the greatest red pumps that Tom destroyed in his bid for Miss World as Dorothy from _The Wizard of Oz_." She paused. "So… you're not angry?"

"And the necklace," he said in a papery voice, as if he had not heard her. "The jewel-covered apple."

"Well, paste jewels, but—" She stopped cold, looking stunned. "Hold on. How on earth did you know about the necklace?"

He didn't answer right away; perhaps he hoped she would make the connection herself, but she couldn't have done so without more information. "Zorro," he said. "Or rather, Phantom of the Opera."

Her hand came up to her mouth. "How could you know _that_?"

"How do you think could I know, darling?" he asked. "There were only two people there." At last he allowed a small smile. "And you left your pants behind."

"Are you—are you joking?" she said, sounding slightly hysterical. "Did you talk to Shazzer, or to Jude, or…"

He fleetingly wondered how many people she had told. "I'm not joking," he said. "I was just back from America, made to attend the masked ball charity event… and was enticed into dancing by a beautiful blonde in shimmering red." 

She stared up at him, still in utter disbelief. "You," she said. "It was you?"

"Yes." As an afterthought, he added, "I was quite touched by the message you left on the mirror."

"You…" She stopped. "Unbelievable. What are the odds?"

"No idea," he said. "Not important." He took her hand. "You're right, it was an irresponsible thing to do, but… I have little room to talk."

At this, she started to laugh, then folded herself into his embrace, still laughing a little. "It's absurd to think of," she said, "but I always wondered. I mean…"

"I know what you mean," he said. "I looked for you the rest of my stay before I went back."

"I had to catch the morning train," she said. She leaned back, a bemused expression on her face. "So did you do that sort of thing often?"

"Did you?" he teased back.

"I asked first."

"Never," he said.

"Me? Every weekend." After a beat she added, "Kidding."

"So did you do that at all, then?" he pressed.

"Maybe in my misspent youth," she admitted, "but never like you and I did, and not since."

"Well, I should hope not."

She chuckled lightly then they fell silent, just standing there in each other's arms; he still could not believe the reality of it. 

"Am a bit sad, though," she said.

"Why?"

"Well, you know," she said. "Now our first time together wasn't our first time together."

"True," he said, pecking a kiss into her hair. "Not exactly the sort of story one can tell one's grandchildren." As he said it, he regretted mentioning children; they were only just moving in together, and children were long-haul. From the sound she made, though, she was evidently happy to hear he was apparently considering it. "You know," he said at last, "I still have the pants somewhere."

At this she pushed back, looking slightly horrified. "Mark! You kept another woman's pants?"

"They were yours," he said.

"You didn't _know_ that," she said with a pout.

"Maybe I wanted to have something to prove it was me," he replied, "in case I ever found her again."

At this she seemed mollified, quirking the corner of her lip up into a half-smile before leaning over and embracing him. "Well, I'm not saying this just because I love you," she murmured. "You really did make Edinburgh very memorable for me."

He chuckled. "And for me."

"Hmm," she said. "Too bad the dress doesn't fit anymore. And is in tatters."

"Darling," he retorted. "Who needs the dress?"

He slipped his hands down and over her backside then covered his mouth with hers, kissing her passionately. In a flash, as if it were only yesterday, he remembered how those sequins had felt beneath his fingertips, how he had been spurred on by the thrill of their anonymous rendezvous.

She pulled back, drawing in a deep breath, then exhaling heavily. "Might not need the dress," she whispered, "but I do at least want the bed."

He laughed, then, bending slightly at the knee, he swooped her up into his arms and whisked her off to their bedroom, dropping her down quickly on the edge of the bed, causing the duvet to flip up then back again. He immediately pounced upon her with a kiss, his hand reaching down and under her skirt as her own hand attacked the button on his trousers. They each were seemingly determined to drive the other to distraction in their quest to work through layers of clothing, but what delightful determination it was.

He seemed to win their little challenge, and with the triumphant removal of her pants he dove down upon her with another kiss as he forcefully drove forward, causing her to squeal into his mouth, then moan. He felt desperate, felt as urgent as he had that night with her, like this might be all he had. Rationally he knew it was ridiculous, but the very thought was what kept him moving with such fire. Her fingernails were like pinpricks on his backside, spurring him on with ever-escalating ardour until his climax overtook him and he growled into her ear.

He continued his motion until he was certain she had reached her own satisfaction, and when she had she sighed happily, reaching over to kiss him softly on the mouth. She lifted herself up to rest on her elbow, then swept her fingertips along his brow, a smug smirk on her lips.

"What?" he asked.

Her smile only grew more mysterious. "Just wishing I had a little more of that red lipstick," she said, "but I suppose you already know what I'd write on a mirror."

_The end._


End file.
